


Diptych

by fatalism_and_villainy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Book: The Children of Húrin, Character Study, Doriath, Female Friendship, Gen, Hair Braiding, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatalism_and_villainy/pseuds/fatalism_and_villainy
Summary: Two scenes featuring Niënor's relationships with two different women, as she struggles to piece together a picture of the brother she has never known.
Relationships: Niënor Níniel & Aerin, Niënor Níniel & Nellas, Niënor Níniel & Túrin Turambar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Diptych

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [alackofghosts](alackofghosts.tumblr.com) for being my motivation in my CoH fanfic endeavours.

Niënor knew that she was living in a divided house. 

Entire rooms had been closed off for years, ever since her father had – her mother refused to say _died_. The Great Hall, where, Niënor knew, her father had once regularly entertained the Elvish king and his lords, all dressed in unimaginable splendour, had not been used in a long time, its hollowness the haunting centerpiece of the house. And one of the bedrooms was always locked, for reasons Niënor’s mother would not speak of – but she had eventually coaxed from one of the women of the house that the room contained the bed on which the Lady Urwen had died. Niënor’s sister – the one who had been older, but who had died before Niënor was born, and was forever a child in the eyes of those who had known her. One of the many ghosts, living and dead, who wandered the partitioned halls of the past that Niënor had been born into. 

She was sharply attuned, as well, to the divide between upstairs and downstairs, and that when her mother received her regular visitor, Niënor was to remain upstairs. But there was nothing to stop her from creeping to the edge of the stairs to listen in. 

High on the landing, she could make out her mother’s dark head, bent over her embroidery, while her aunt Aerin sat across from her, her head inclined close and speaking quietly. There wasn’t the same urgency to her words, the same tension to her body, as there had been last time – that was good. 

“…been happier lately,” Aerin was saying. “Now that it’s hunting season again – so it’s easier at home. Please don’t be worried. I was more worried about you, not being able to come for so long.”

Morwen set down her embroidery hoop. “We are accustomed to rationing.”

Aerin placed her hand on top of Morwen’s. Niënor’s mother remained still, but her posture became less unyielding. “All the same. Is Niënor awake? I have some toys for her.”

Niënor backed away slowly until she was out of sight, and then scurried back to her room. It was not so late, but it was after dark, and she would be expected to be in bed.

Some moments later, a sliver of light broke through the door of Niënor’s room, and Niënor heard her name tentatively being called. 

Niënor shuffled the blankets back to poke her head out. “Aunt Aerin!” she called, fiercely throwing her arms the visitor. Aerin’s hair bunched in her hands, crinkly and the same gold as Niënor’s. 

“Oh, child, let me look at you.” Aerin drew back and clutched Niënor’s face in her hands, giving her an appraising look. The same quiet, demanding approach that she regularly employed with Morwen was on display here, but she was freer in her touch than she ever displayed in the affectionate but guarded formality that Niënor watched her maintain with Morwen. 

“You’ve grown,” Aerin declared, finally. 

“The women of the house all say I’ve gotten taller,” Niënor reported.

“Ah, it’s not height. I can see it in your eyes. Growing isn’t a matter of size, on its own, it’s how much you know. You’ll learn to see it in another’s eyes, eventually.” Aerin sighed, plaintively. “I’m afraid you’re learning the cruelty of the world faster than most.”

“You sound like Mother,” Niënor said. “Usually you don’t. But she’s said something like that before. That this is no place for a child, and so the best thing to do is for me to grow up as best as possible.”

“Your mother gives you everything she possibly can.”

“I know,” Niënor returned hurriedly. A determined protectiveness of Morwen surged through her. 

“She barely had a childhood, herself,” Aerin continued quietly. “She dearly wished her children could run freely and be merry. But she always feared that it would not be so – and when she lost your sister, the joy and delight of this house – it presaged for her that that that kind of innocent play would be lost for all of you.” She shook her head, her voice catching. “Ah, enough of this talk. Here, I have something for you.”

She drew a drawstring pouch from within her skirts and opened it to produce a fine wooden comb. It was polished to a golden brown sheen, and a string of rubies was embedded in the handle. She reached to grasp it in wonderment, running the pads of her fingers across the smooth surface. 

“These combs are traditional among the women in our family,” Aerin said. “Originally elven-craft, but we modified the method for our own traditions. One of our precious practices.” 

Niënor looked up at her as she trailed off. Aerin’s voice had been sounded dangerously close to breaking, for a moment. “My mother has one,” she said. 

Aerin nodded. “She would. Hers belonged to Hareth, your grandmother. Having no daughters, Hareth passed it on to her daughter-in-law upon her marriage.” She took a deep breath in. “And since I have no daughters, I would like you to have mine. You should have your mother’s, too, someday, but – please keep this one for me.” Lifting the comb from Niënor’s hands, Aerin gently reached to turn her. “Here, I’ll plait your hair. It’ll keep it secure and untangled for the night.”

Niënor obediently assumed a cross-legged pose on the bed as Aerin settled behind her and began working her fingers through her tousled hair. “Aunt Aerin, will you tell me about my brother again?”

This was one of Niënor’s most frequently recurring inquiries. The spectre of this solemn, dark haired figure always seemed to follow behind her, dogging her footsteps as she walked the halls of the house. The servants had told her, with traces of grief surfacing on their faces, how young Túrin had adored his sister Urwen, and watched her play as a hovering, protective shadow. Niënor often imagined him lurking nearby as she played, and constructed long, intricate scenarios wherein her brother would come and save her from some peril. She believed, with a devout conviction, that he would offer clarity, and that her life would only properly make sense when she was to meet him. Morwen had answered each of her questions about him, but with such exact, measured brevity that Niënor sensed that this was one of many topics she ought to leave alone. No matter how persistent her curiosity, Niënor would never violate the unspoken and binding agreements that had developed between her and Morwen. But Aerin was always willing to indulge in the past. 

“Your brother? Well, he was never much for playing.” Both of Aerin’s hands were busy separating Niënor’s hair into different segments. “Always so serious – and so personally responsible for everything in his midst. He would have been a wonderful Lord of Dor-lómin.”

She let out a low, regretful sigh. “He once saved me from a dog, you know. It was growling ferociously, trying to corner me, and he came and started shouting and throwing stones at it. Eventually he drove it off. And he was such a valiant gentleman about it, too – such a little boy! He came to me, inquired if I was harmed, and then very somberly informed me that I ought to handle myself more carefully. Truly, he spoke exactly as if he were already grown.” Another little sound, this time a huff of laughter. “He was going to be so brave and eloquent when he grew up, we could all tell. And I’m sure that’s exactly what he’s become. The best of Hador and Bëor.” 

This was all familiar to Niënor. Her marvelous brother, off living among the Elves and wearing shining mail. 

“What do you think I will grow up to be? If I am to grow up well, and soon.” No one ever made mention to Niënor of her future – the only inkling she had received of her prospects had come from cryptic, ominous statements she had overheard from her mother and Aerin at one point – _“This is not a good place for a girl to come of age,” Morwen had said._

Aerin laughed again, a slow exhale. She had begun weaving the segments of hair together, and Niënor was soothed by the slight tug on her scalp. “You’re not unlike him, you know. You have a swift memory, and could spin a cunning argument. You have possibilities, child – never think otherwise. Oh, and the stubbornness – you and Túrin both have that. Unsurprising, given your parents. Look at your mother – would any of the proud warrior men here dare to assail her? But I suspect you have your father’s stubbornness more than anything.” 

Aerin tied off one of the braids and started on the other side. “Your father – he was a few years older, so we rarely played together as children. But he captured everyone’s attention, and inspired loyalty and devotion with so little effort. No matter the situation, he was always so lighthearted. At his wedding, he led the dancing so joyfully – always so celebratory without being indecent. And he adored your mother. Never has any man had such regard for his wife, to my knowledge. He worshipped the ground she walked upon – and courted her so thoroughly. They were betrothed, of course, at a young age, but he became captivated by her as he grew older, independent of his father’s wish. She was extraordinarily beautiful, but most men thought her cold. But he said once that he admired her composure and dignity. And look what devotion he inspired – you see how she refuses to forsake him.”

Niënor was unsurprised by this lengthy aside. The love between her parents was a source of great interest to Aerin, and one that had been related to her multiple times. Yet Niënor, as ever, found herself more perplexed than moved. _Love_ , this glorious, grandiose display, seemed completely distant to her, as fanciful and ephemeral as the Elven kingdom that housed her brother. Niënor had seen love up close, and it lived in silent, ritual moments, perfectly choreographed from experience. In her mother without hesitation pushing the last of the food onto Niënor’s plate, or in Niënor reading out loud from her poetry book as Morwen sat across from her, always listening intently. To think of there being room for any other kind of love in their house, something full and vibrant that loudly echoed throughout the rooms, rather than the kind of love that thrived in the cracks and crevices – Niënor couldn’t picture it. 

Marriage was also elusive, contradictory. Aerin was afraid of her husband, Niënor knew, and the atmosphere in her conversations with Morwen grew cold and leaden whenever the subject came up. Husbands in general struck Niënor as shadowy, duplicitous, a part of life she had only heard through hushed whispers and obfuscating words, as if the women around her sought to protect her from the fate. Certainly her parents’ marriage had not been thus – but how could one word mean such different things?

“These things are so confusing,” she finally lamented. 

Aerin’s hands were still moving patiently. “Love? Courtship?”

“All of it.”

“You will understand it more in time. As I said, that’s what growing is. But you already understand a good amount, for one in your position. You were born in the aftermath of sad events, my child, and you see only the results. You are unlucky, to have to do so much learning so soon. But I pray you will not have to live in the wake of despair forever. Your mother certainly will not allow it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course.” Aerin tied off the plait. 

_And what about you?_ Niënor almost asked But she held herself back. She knew well enough when certain questions were untouchable. Instead, she kept still as Aerin wrapped the plait into a spiral against her head and pinned it in place. 

“Mother pins it that way too,” Niënor said. “Did you teach her that? Or did you learn it from her?”

“I learned it from her,” Aerin replied. “The House of Bëor had all manner of intricate patterns they used in plaiting hair – many with specific ceremonial purposes. Your mother showed some of them to me once, in our youth – she was ever so kind to me then, despite how aloof she seemed from far-off.”

Niënor nodded drowsily, settling down with her head against Aerin’s knee. “Will you stay for a bit longer? I’ll go to sleep sooner if you’re telling me stories.”

“I will.” Aerin rested her hand on Niënor’s brow. “Your mother will be glad to know I’ve left you sleeping.”

***

Years later, when she and Morwen readied to leave Dor-lómin, to finally abandon the house of phantoms Morwen had clung to for so long, Niënor only broached the topic of Aerin once.

“Couldn’t she come with us?”

“No,” Morwen replied sharply. “She would not come.”

“But _why_?”

“She has the ability to evaluate her own safety. Her circumstances are different from ours. That is all.”

Niënor dropped the matter, recognizing her mother’s brusqueness as indicating deep pain. But when they readied their horses, heavy clocks shielding them from the soft but persistent onslaught of rain, she turned around once more to look in the direction of Brodda’s house, and wept bitterly. 

***  
Emeralds were in short supply in Hithlum, with her mother’s finery well archived and hidden away from bandits. Niënor had occasionally run her fingers over the emerald-embellished brocade, the glittering light they captured together spilling out over the musty and faded fabric. 

Here in Doriath, the light of the emeralds seemed to be intensified by a thousandfold, swelling to fill up the broad expanses of forest. The verdant canopies were set ablaze by the summer sun, and pools of sunshine spilled onto the densely wooded paths, waxing and waning at the whims of the wind’s movement of the trees.

Niënor had been told by the Elf-women who had been sent to wait on them that the brilliance of the emeralds matched that of the trees because of the union of Aulë and Yavanna; it was said in Queen Melian’s teachings that at the world’s creation, Aulë would model his wife’s vistas in the gems he set in the earth, and that their works thus mirrored one another even as they worked at odds. 

But Niënor privately remained doubtful as to whether the jeweled splendor of Doriath had ever been reflected in Hithlum. Had the land of her birth once boasted a similar luster, one that had been drained by the devastation of war? Or was this some strange charm or bewitchment of Elven realms? The colours of Doriath were richer, more vibrant, than she had ever imagined possible, and its beauty seemed to bend time itself; hours drifted by with the same listlessness as the little brooks that meandered through the forest. The realization that she was somehow out of alignment with the realm came upon Niënor slowly and disquietingly. She thought longingly of her brother, who had run off to fight the servants of Morgoth, and thought she understood his restlessness all too well. But there was no one here to understand, except her mother. 

Morwen disliked living in Doriath. She never let such a complaint pass her lips, but Niënor knew well enough how to read her silences to understand that it chafed at her to rely on others’ goodwill, to have forsaken the house of which she had been mistress. Niënor devoted herself to Morwen’s company as steadfastly as she had before, but found it stifling to be confined to their chambers. As Morwen had grown averse to the out-of-doors, Niënor insisted on taking some hours alone, and the women assured Morwen that she would be quite safe within the Girdle. 

Being alone was fresh, exhilarating. Niënor’s childhood had consisted of long hours at the mercy of her own play and imaginings, but that had been within the walls of their house, crammed full of its memories and regrets, and with the ghostly imprints of her father and brother and lost sister at every turn. Niënor had never before been so unmoored, with the dizzying vastness of open space and rhythms of life in the forest so blessedly unconcerned with her. 

Niënor could hear the babbling brook before it came into view, its sounds beckoning her closer. Inquiry had revealed that it was a tributary of the River Teiglin that eventually flowed into the river beyond the Girdle. Niënor had fallen into an almost ritualistic habit of walking along the length of the brook, making her way farther and farther along each day. She had to take every day in small doses, her impulse to shrink away and retreat from her newfound freedom proving slow to dissipate. But she was possessed by a gripping conviction that this particular brook, if she followed for long enough, would lead her to some new self-knowledge, and that the world would unfold before her in patterns newly writ. 

The path today was somewhat worn and softened by the spring rains, and Niënor stumbled along, her determination driving her forth with little care for the unsteady terrain. A memory rose to the forefront of her mind: Aerin once telling her that she lacked the talent for luxuriating, and that Niënor could never stop and enjoy the taste of a moment, always needing to hasten on to the next.

_“Was my father like that?” Niënor had asked._

_“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. Your father – well, he had a great capacity for joy. Any kind of delight to be had, he would seize upon it. But he did feel a great deal of responsibility – anything that needed to be solved, no matter how small, he would need to be there to put it to right. But he wasn’t naturally inclined towards looking ahead or anticipating disaster. That would be your mother’s domain. If anything, I would say your need to rush comes from your father’s urgency, and your mother’s caution.”_

Aerin had not specifically said so, but from memory of her comments of Túrin, Niënor guessed that the same mingling of her parents’ natures had taken place within her brother as well. 

Niënor shook her head ruefully, slowing her pace a bit. As she paused to take in the scent of the earth, a scuffling sounded behind her. Niënor started, panic twinging through her body. She whipped around and was met with the sight of a startled elf-girl curled up in the notch of a tree. 

“Forgive me, miss!” the girl cried out. Her voice was reedy, and a loosely tied plait of light brown hair was draped over her shoulder, its bushiness nearly obscuring one side of her small, angular face. She looked to Niënor’s eye to be about nine or ten years old – but then, Elf-children grew more slowly, didn’t they?

The girl scrambled down the trunk of the tree, with the nimble virtuosity in movement that Niënor had observed in the others who tended on her and her mother. Could such skills be taught, or were they natural to the Eldar? 

“Begging your pardon,” the girl repeated. “I had not intended to spy or to startle you, truly! I come down here sometimes, to watch the river rushing and the birds passing overhead, and it is not a pass where one often sees great ladies!” Here she inclined her head slightly.

An incredulous laugh burst from Niënor’s lips. “I’m not a lady – not anymore. Or rather, I never was. I’m only a visitor.” She paused, expecting disappointment from the child, but the only response from her was a relaxation of her posture. She was clearly uncomfortable facing nobility. 

“But who are you?” continued Niënor. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” replied the girl, leaping aimlessly onto one of the rocks at the river’s edge. She began to make her way across them, concentrating studiously on her balance, her words trailing behind as a near-afterthought. “I was told they were killed, when I was very young.” She turned and began working her way back, seemingly unconcerned by this revelation. “My people have always wandered freely outside the bounds of Menegroth, and I freer than most. I was nursed by the sun and taught by the birds!”

A curious recognition stirred in Niënor at this child’s carefree speech, the grace of her self-assurance. Niënor had seen so few other children, and had never before been confronted with such a stark embodiment of her past self. It was as if some spirit of her memory had taken shape in the buoyed posture of this girl – had she not herself been similarly absorbed in her fancies, at that age? 

“Have you got a name?” she asked. 

“I am called Nellas,” the girl replied. She settled down on the flat surface of one of the stones in the water, crossing her legs beneath her. “And you?”

“I am Niënor.”

“Ah, who gave you such a sad name?”

Niënor smiled ruefully. “It is my name for the same reason I am not a lady.” She bent down to slip her shoes off, and tentatively stepped into the water. The water rushed over her feet, bitingly cold, and she winced slightly at the chill of the stones at the surface as she sat down opposite Nellas. “Likely it is related to the reason I was so often alone when I was your age.”

Nellas nodded solemnly. “I am alone often too. I had a companion once, who came to play with me near every day. But he grew so quickly, and eventually left me behind. Because he had become a man and grown tired of play.”

A tremor passed through Niënor, as if the horizons had become reangled around her. She leaned forward, prickling with excitement. 

“Your companion,” she said, “what was his name?”

“He was called Túrin,” Nellas looked unfazed by her sudden interest. “Very dark and serious.”

_Túrin_. The name, sounding from the lips of some lone, fey child, brought a mystical ring, an uncanny recognition within the vastness and unknowability of the world. 

“You knew my brother,” breathed Niënor. 

“Your brother?” Nellas’ eyes widened. “You are one of the Aftercomers! I had taken you for an Elf!”

Niënor laughed again. “Naturally you would. I doubt you see many Men in Doriath. But if you saw me beside one of your own kind, you would never assume so. Though I am told that in her youth my mother also resembled one of the Eldar in beauty, and that my brother resembled her also.”

“You resemble him too,” said Nellas. She narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. “Something in your face – but also the way you move. You both step lightly.” 

“I have never laid eyes upon him,” Niënor responded keenly. “Do you truly think we look alike?” It was rare to hear her appearance compared to Túrin’s – more often to her father’s, or, in the more grief-stricken moments of the women of the house, to her sister’s.

The child nodded resolutely. “But your hair is different. As bright as his was dark. Such a colour is rare among us, except, I am told, in those across the Sea.” She hesitated. “Would you allow me to plait it?”

“Of course.” Niënor shifted on her boulder as Nellas leapt down with a little splash and climbed up behind her. Her tiny hands sifted through Niënor’s hair, lightly brushing her scalp as they unfastened the loose ties. The touch beckoned forth another recollection – if the sweeping, ephemeral realm of childhood could be distilled into one sense-memory. It had been so long since Niënor’s hair had been handled by another, and since she had had to assume this particular kind of stillness. Though if she had indeed become a lady, in some other world, this would have been a familiar and daily exercise. 

“My brother,” Niënor pressed. “Tell me – “ she paused, at a loss at what to ask. “What was he like?” The question seemed immature, inadequate, but nothing more specific could express the intensity of her curiosity.

“Like I said, very serious. Always watching everything, but never saying much. But he was so well-spoken when he did! He used to follow me everywhere silently. He would do things like climb trees with me, or wade in the brook, but only after I asked more than once. He was slow at play – slow all the time, really. He never acted out, except when provoked. Like when he left-“ but here Nellas suddenly broke off, her hands pausing in their movements.

“What?” asked Niënor, seized by suspicion. “What happened when left?”

Nellas’ hands returned to work, more rapidly. “Ah, miss – if you don’t know, then perhaps I shouldn’t – “

“Tell me!” Niënor insisted. “All I was told is that he left to go and fight the Enemy. Did something else happen? Was he – was he forced to leave?” 

“No, no! He wasn’t forced at all.” Nellas said hastily. “He –“ a rush of anger came into her voice. “He was _wronged_. But he still freely chose to leave, for the exact reasons you were told!”

“What do you mean?” Niënor tried to turn her head, but was hampered by the grasp Nellas had on her hair. “What happened?”

“Stay still, stay still, I’ll tell you! Lady Niënor, I’m afraid that despite the King’s kindness, not everyone was pleased to have your brother here. There are some who are still hostile towards outsiders, and Men especially, despite the heroism of Beren. And Túrin seemed so strange to them, so reserved and unsmiling, that not all were kind to him. And there was one who dealt him insult” - here Nellas wavered slightly – “or rather, he insulted the virtue and honour of you and your mother. And Túrin grew angry, and was provoked into a fight. He set out to humiliate him in retribution, and inadvertently drove him to his death.”

“His death,” whispered Niënor. “Túrin killed someone?”

“Yes. But it was unplanned! And he was wrongfully provoked! The King was willing to pardon him after I explained it all. But Túrin still refused to return.”

“I see.” Niënor closed her eyes. Her image of her brother had always been coloured by the accounts of Aerin, or of the women of the house, and in that impression he had always been a child. She had known that her brother was older than she was, but in her more instinctive and fanciful thoughts they had been of an age, and he had grown up alongside her as a shadow-companion. This testimony was the first glimpse Niënor had been given of the grown Túrin, purposeful and ablaze with righteous anger. Potentially dangerous. And that he had been spurred to action in defense of her! – a tug on the strange thread that connected them. 

“Miss?” Nellas was worried. “Should I not have told you?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” murmured Niënor. The surreality of the scene was suddenly overwhelming, the warmth of the sun on her knees and the chill of the water lapping over her feet feeling curiously alien. It was impossible to feel grounded in Doriath, but especially when confronted with ghosts of the past. She imagined the slim elf-child behind her roaming the woods with a dark-haired boy. Her brother traversing this luminous, dreamy landscape and severed from the dusty, shadowy corners of their house in Dor-lómin. Niënor had played alone, and Túrin had watched another little girl play instead, just as it was said he had watched Urwen play. And this girl, like Urwen, was still as young and carefree as ever, while Túrin had grown and surpassed them. But no, that was too morbid – Urwen was dead, ever-young only in memory, and Nellas would grow up eventually, if not for many long years. 

“It’s alright,” Niënor repeated. “It’s just strange – I never knew my brother, you realize. I was born after he was sent away. All I have of him is little scraps of others’ stories.” 

Nellas was fixing a bit of twine at the base of the plait. “I am sorry, miss. I have never had brothers – but I know that the separation from you was a great sadness to him.” 

Niënor nodded. 

“Your hair is finished,” Nellas continued. “I don’t have a comb, so it’s not as nice as it could look. But I hope the pattern is pleasing?”

Niënor lifted the tail end of the plait over her shoulder to see that her hair had been woven into a tight fishtail pattern. “It is. And never mind about the comb. Plaiting is always a fine excuse for talking anyway. But may I ask that you leave me now, Nellas? I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

“Of course.” Nellas drew away from her and stood up. “May I come to you again, later? I will be able to find you easily.”

“Yes,” replied Niënor. “I’d like that.”

She had barely turned her head to look before Nellas had hopped back to the shore and disappeared into the canopy of trees. Sighing, Niënor drew her feet up and crossed her legs beneath her. She took a moment to take in the cadence of the trees swaying in the wind, and of the water gliding over the rocks. Such a bittersweet fate, to be hosted in yet another place that Túrin had already left behind!

She would catch up with him eventually. She _would_. 

Niënor examined the plait again and smiled slightly at the earnestness of the girl’s work. The next time they met, she ought to ask her the method. It would be something to bring home to Morwen.

**Author's Note:**

> The Teiglin was the river that Niënor eventually cast herself into. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [fatalism-and-villainy](fatalism-and-villainy.tumblr.com)!


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